My Fight with Breast Cancer

I went for my yearly exam at my OB/GYN this week.  In addition to the usual humiliations that one normally endures during a GYN visit, I intended to have the doctor drain a so-called cyst in my right breast.  A pap smear and a giant needle stuck in my boob all in one wonderful day.  What could be more fun?

A little backstory:

At my previous visit with my doctor, I had pointed out a lump that I had found in my breast. He told me that it was Fibrocystic Breast Disease and that I had nothing to worry about.  He said that if the cyst grew, that would mean that it was filling up with fluid, which he could easily drain in the office.  Because of this benign diagnoses, I didn’t feel a sense of urgency as the lump grew in my breast between appointments.  It wasn’t until I developed a constant, dry, hacking cough that I began to worry…or should I say, my husband began to worry.

My cough was so bad that I could barely talk on the telephone.  I thought that my cough was allergy / asthma induced, so I made an appointment with my doctor a few months early to take care of the cyst in my breast and to get an inhaler for my cough.

During my exam, I reclined on the table and lifted my arm over my head as the doctor requested.  I knew something was wrong by the look on his face.  He led me to another room where he had an ultra-sound machine set up for pelvic exams.  He then reached for a prescription pad and ordered me to get a mammogram at a nearby radiologist’s office.  I was shocked by how easy it was for him to do that.  If all he had to do was write my name at the top of a pre-printed prescription pad, why hadn’t he done that the year before?

You see, the year before, like many young women, I was not offered a mammogram, ultrasound, biopsy- nothing.  This was a terrible mistake on the part of my doctor, but again, all too common in younger women.

Check out this article.  It explains that misdiagnosis or delayed diagnosis of breast cancer is the most common medical malpractice suit.  Now, before I get any hate mail:  I am not condoning or condemning the suing of doctors.  I love doctors.  I am simply posting this for everyone’s best interest.  I would hope any doctor reading this would download the article, read it, and pass it on to a colleague.  It could save a life.  Take all lumps seriously doctors; follow them closely or stick a needle in it!  Please! (and thank you)

I just made an appointment to have my first mammogram.  I never thought I’d be needing one at the age of 30.  As evidenced by the various email jokes forwarded to me over the years by my mother, I’m assuming I’m not going to like it.  I just hope the technician’s hands are warm.

I had my first mammogram today.  It wasn’t all that unpleasant.  I don’t know why, but for some reason, I really dressed for the occasion.  Not that putting on a nice outfit would sway the results in any way, but it just felt right (at least for the brief time until I had to take my clothes off and put on a very unflattering hospital gown.)  “Make sure it’s opens in the front” the nurse said.  What am I, an amateur?  Of course I know to have it open in the front!

I wasn’t disappointed.  Her hands were warm.  The technician guided me into the room and was very sweet and talkative.  I didn’t catch her name, which is a shame since I like to be able to recall the names of all the people who grope me.  Grope me?  More like mauled me.  She and that dreadful machine. 

Ms. Warm Hands had me stand before the machine while she prepared the film and made some adjustments.  Then I gracefully unveiled my offending orb and placed her delicately on the shelf of the x-ray machine.  Ms. Warm hands pushed me further into the machine (hey! No rough housing!) and then placed her hand on my boob to hold it in place while she mercilessly lowered the top panel.  Then she gave it a few sadistic hand cranks for good measure and told me to “hold still”.  Where else was I going to go?  She had my tit trapped in a vise grip.  I felt as helpless as an animal caught in a trap, although chewing it off wasn’t an option at that point.

After I was finished with the mammogram machine, I was guided into another room to have a proper ultrasound performed.  A new technician squirted some lubricant on my breast and began to move the wand back and forth.  It kind of tickled. 

When that was done, I wiped the excess goo off of my chest and stepped back into my nice clothes.  What a waste of a good outfit.

I just received the results of my mammogram and ultra-sound.  There is something suspicious that they wish to biopsy.  They want me to come back “ASAP”.  That’s reassuring. 

I’m debating whether I should tell my husband that the Radiologist wants to biopsy the mysterious area in my breast.  God love him, but Michael is just not very stable.  I once dubbed him, “The Italian Version of Richard Lewis” and those who know Michael, know what I mean- and, what I put up with.  I just know that if tell him that I need to have a procedure, he’s going to go out of his mind with worry, and I don’t have a tranquilizer dart to shoot him with.  After all, why should I worry him when it could be nothing?

I decided that I shouldn’t keep the fact that I was getting a biopsy on my breast from my husband.  He grilled me about my mammogram appointment and I didn’t want to lie, so I down-played my description of the appointment as much as possible and told him that it was just procedure, that the mass was probably nothing.  He stared at me blankly for a second.  Then he set his jaw and was grimly silent for about 20 minutes (the calm before the storm).  It wasn’t long before he started banging away furiously on his computer; this is always a bad sign.  Like most neurotic, obsessive-compulsive hypochondriacs, the Internet has become a feeding source for Michael’s never-ending quest for finding doomed information regarding disease.  When he finally emerged from the office, he was sufficiently upset.

He made me give a play-by-play of my appointment over and over.  If I left something out, he would detect it like an attorney with a lying witness on the stand.  He would then ask me to “think about it carefully” and repeat the same question again.  Finally, realizing there was nothing he could do at this point, he provided me a list of questions to ask the doctor when I returned for the biopsy.  I could almost see him going out of his mind.

Michael was pacing the floor and, literally, tugging at his hair.  Meanwhile, at this point, it could be absolutely nothing!  What I have to put up with…